Two Sides of the Coin
by Scruffybear27
Summary: There are always two sides of the coin, two sides of the story. No exceptions. So when you only heard about the Seam, there had been another side. The Merchant's had a story to tell. This is it.
1. Lighting the flames

**Hi! Thanks for looking! In the Hunger Games, there's never really much about the Merchants in it, and you don't really know anything about them. This is what I think they might've been like. This chapter will be an intro for them. Enjoy!**

* * *

District 12 is smallest District of Panem. Therefore, it is the most pathetic. In years gone by, no-one ever challenged the law, everyone complied to the rules- there was less than zero chance of rebellion. And so, everyone's lives had become painstaking routines that never changed, not for the world. The citizens became scared, petrified even, of change, feared any sign of resistance. At least, half of them did. The Merchants. Why should they challenge anything? They could provide for them and their family, they were perfectly safe. They put up no fight and they were left alone by authority, virtually unchecked. Until a fateful event changed that.

Had it not occurred, the rebellion may not have happened. More children would be dead, the Capitol would be just as corrupted, or became even more dark and shady. But the fact is, it happened. The Merchants had found out the ulterior motive. And they despised it.

No-one realised exactly what was happening beneath the surface. No-one looked past first appearances, they never doubted what they saw, never challenged a single detail, never realised that nothing was quite adding up. That was their final downfall. If they'd found out, it could've been translated to all the Districts; they could've stopped everything, made everyone bow to the supreme power of the Capitol, and more specifically, President Snow That was why the Merchants thrived. That was their advantage...

Now, if you were going to decide who was the strongest of 12, who would you choose? The Seam, of course. Everyday, they work themselves to the bone down the mines, constantly straining. They are stronger, braver and have more reason to hate the Capitol. The Merchants are rich. They have plenty food, plenty money and have easy, simple lives, selling to the other well-to-do. Of course they'd be weaker, it's common sense. But, the Seam may not be all it is famed to be. The people are more trodden-down, depressed and trapped. They're long past fighting. They've long since given up. The Merchants haven't though. They were full of rebellion, fresh and burning. All they needed was a spark and BANG! The whole of Panem could go up in flames. And so it would.

There were 75 Hunger Games throughout history, each with 24 tributes in. Countless families were wrecked by their cruelty, countless more wrecked by simple association. At first, it wasn't quite so bad. People weren't so attached within the Districts, they didn't really care for one another. But human nature is to care, and eventually, friendships formed, groups were created. It was so much worse then. Not only could your own child, your own flesh and blood be taken, so could your best friends, the post boy, the shopkeepers daughter: anyone under 18. People came to see it as what is truly was. Not just a game, a form of entertainment for those out of harm's way, but a warning. Watch us take away your children while you watch on helplessly. You cannot rebel. You have no power. We are your rulers.

Years passed, decades ticked away and nothing changed. It took 73 pointless Gmaes to get there, to get to the rebellion, but it was reached. A handful of berries took down the Capitol. A Seam girl and a Merchant boy led a rebellion and all was right. But nothing was right. Still, all those people were gone, forgotten, destined to never be spoke of again. Those heroes, who fought their own battles against their own demons, were never going to tell their story. Until one day, one unremarkable day, something snapped. One girl finally understood the lives lost. She had to let them be remembered. show they were not pointless, they were special, they shouldn't have any achievement go unsung. Everyone was going to know of the Merchants and how they changed the world.

* * *

**What did you think? Good, bad, OK? Any questions, suggestions, comments, please put them in a review. I'll reply to them at the start of the next chapter!**


	2. Treading the path

**Hello! Now, despite what I said in the last chapter, we are not going to start on anyone else's story this chapter. This is just my imagining of the aftermath of the Rebellion. This might not be totally canon, so if anyone sees any mistakes, please let me know. **

**Also, updates will come roughly every week, though the day may vary. Expect them about Wednesday to Friday. I can't work any faster with the rest of my stories, homework and whatever else needs doing. **

**Now that's out of the way, please enjoy and review!**

* * *

While we are not in the middle of any person's story, I though I might take the opportunity to illuminate some of the history of the Merchants, specifically, their first origins. Now, as I am sure you know, no place is created with a divide, just as no person is born knowing to hate. The separation must be formed, out of years of distrust and hatred. The catalyst for this particular divide was the Rebellion, or more specifically, the final stages. Throughout the War, they had stood as one District, united against the Capitol. But there are ways to break bonds, ways to spread distrust. Tactics which the Capitol used with reckless abandon.

The Capitol won the Rebllion with a mixture of things: incredibly advanced technology, deadly hybrids, simple location and murderous soldiers. There was little the Rebels could do to disable any of these and their only option was to try and equal them- an impossible feat. Despite the efforts of the Districts, the Capitol's power proved itself to be stronger than they could even imagine. It was unmatchable by any measure. There was one more factor which they couldn't match as well, though it is rarely credited in any modern texts. The immoral, deadly, underhand tyrant they called a leader.

Snow.

Do you think I'm being just a little to harsh? After all, he did protect his citizens, as any rightful leader should. He was bound to make mistakes, bound to pick up a few enemies, me included. At the end of the day, he was just another leader, maybe slightly harsh, but a leader none the less. But, pray tell, does every leader decide to take their enemies children and kill them as a way to control them? And celebrate it, treating it as entertainment, a big event of the year? And I ma guessing you know the story of the poison. Another usual trait of a leader? Friends, workers, murdered because they might dare to disobey him. Killed because of potential. He was a little more... sparing (for want of a better word) when it came to the Rebels of course. Why kill future law-abiding citizens? After all, they can do the dirty work. Instead, creations were engineered, specially designed to kill in the most brutal fashions; either excruciatingly slowly and painfully or in a way which could only be described as unthinkable. When captured, people were forced to watch, living in the most squalid conditions. One death made umpteen others break. Ingenious. I will grant you that- Snow is fantastically skilled in the art of murder.

Now, back to the subject at hand. The Merchants. At this point, imagine them as half of District 12. There were several divisions of citizens; front line soldiers, medics, spies and so many more. Most Merchants were soldiers, mainly staying around the borders of the District, searching for Capitol soldiers who had infiltrated their ranks or unthinkable mutations, engineered in high-tech labs. Few were the soldiers who were sent out to battle the Capitol head on. You see, there were two groups of the District for a long time, though they were nowhere near as defined. Those who muttered darkly about the Capitol, creating millions of schemes to bring it down and those who just got on with it, refusing to let the Capitol force them into something which they weren't. Guess which side was which.

When all hope was lost and the Rebels had surrendered, all Citizens were forced to their District's and given a meagre supply of food each day. Just enough to keep them alive, but not nearly enough to keep them healthy. The two sides became more prominent. There were now those who tried to defy the Capitol openly and those who simply wanted to live and get to the next day. This worsened with each passing day, as the amount of Peacekeepers increased and, with it, more rules came, restricting them more and more. One day, a fence was built around the entire District, enclosing them like animals ready for slaughter. As they were soon going to become.

Nearly a month after the War had ended, there finally came some form of order, a sign that things were eventually going to turn back into the way they were before the Rebellion. Houses were built and people were assigned a side. Those who did nothing against the rule of the Capitol (the Merchants and a few wary Seam residents) were assigned to the better end, where shops had been built. They were forced to work there, in whatever business they wanted to be in. The Seam residents were instead forced to work as miners, where most of them had worked previously, along with some of the Merchants.

I am guessing that you realise there is a world of difference between mining and running a shop. This difference did not go unnoticed by those who worked in the Mines and, as well as the Capitol, the Merchants were added to the long list of people they were unwilling to trust or ally with. And that is the way it has always been, right up unto this day.

As the years progressed, the two halves became more and more defined. As more children were born, hair colours began to be way to distinguish between the two groups, a simple way to tell who could be trusted. Slowly, they drifted further and further apart, only coming together for the occasional wedding or celebration, which nine times out of ten ending in a full scale riot and more than a few black eyes. In those days, people still very much had their guards up from the War; they were perfectly aware that at any point, the Capitol could decide that there was need to attack and come back as they once had, all guns blazing. After all, it had been quiet for so long, no mention of anything. It couldn't last. And, of course, it didn't. When does anything stay the same when the Capitol is concerned?

The announcement for the Games came on a day undistinguishable from any other, in the heat of summer. As people slowly began to filter out to work wherever they were needed, they were harshly directed to the square by Peacekeepers. They barged into houses, guns raised against an impossible attack and forced each and every inhabitant to the square, some with a gun at their head, or those of their families. This was more than effective. There may have been bitter hatred between the two sides, but there was still strong bonds between the individuals within each. At this time, everyone had some kind of family, however small it may have been. This didn't last of course, it couldn't with the strain put on those bonds from the Capitol, but at this moment, they stood as strong as hey could be.

The First Games were new to everyone, even those in the Capitol. Despite the majority of citizens embracing the Games with open arms, there were still some who had a conscience, some who saw them as they truly were. They regarded them as purely evil, just a scare tactic, one step too far, but they were few and far between and most certainly ignored. And eventually, silenced. Forever. What ever measures were took, they worked like a charm and soon enough, The Capitol soon became enamored by their new sporting event, somehow forgetting about the many, many lives it was costing. They didn't personally know any of them, so why did it matter? They were but peasants, the poor workers. If they even bothered to think about them as any more than scum.

The First Games were new to everyone, even the Tributes. The rules were still slightly sketchy and there was little in the way of training or publicity. Barring the interviews, there was no outside communication. They were left to sit and stew in the Capitol, nothing to do and a very long time to do it. They were terrified, unsure as to what exactly they were actually being expected to do. None of them wanted to become a monster, a murderer, and some were even reluctant to injure. The eventual Victor was a District 2 girl who had seen most of her family die in the Rebellion; she had no regrets about killing others since others had killed her family. As time passed, the Games became more and more popular and expectations became higher. The Careers formed, and almost every year, terrorized the pack. Death became expected from the poorer District's, who were viewed as nothing more than prey. Mentors were introduced to guide the way for the Tributes, but mostly so the old favourites got screen time. Wouldn't want to lose them.

* * *

**Thank you for reading, please review!**


	3. Facing the consequences

**Hello! If you've been on this story before, you'll notice that this story has been collapsed into one chapter. It's really long, there were 4 chapters to it when I first posted this. The story is going to become one shots though, so instead of deleting this, I've made it into one super long chapter. If you want to skip this and move on, I wouldn't blame you, it's over 4,000 words. Anyways, it's here if you want it!**

* * *

There was a time, not quite so long ago, when the Districts were totally, unquestionably united. Devoid of social divides, prejudice or anything of that sort, they thrived as a whole, not as individual pieces of the same puzzle. I must say, times like that are incredibly rare and precious yet, they are always so very fragile. So slowly, so very, very slowly, this state of peace crumbled away, leaving a mass of divides and hostility in its place. This, I believe, was the first step in a very long path which started and ended with a Rebellion. First, they rose up against the Capitol and lost. Then, they rose again and won. Lives were lost though. It was inevitable you say, it had to be done to form a happy world for today, you say. However, do you know how many precious people were unnecessarily murdered? How many people were just there at the wrong place, the wrong time? The children shielding the Mansion. Citizens of the Districts. The Merchants...

Now, to perfectly understand how exactly these people played such a key role, you must know how they lived, what made them tick. Generally, there were but one or two children in a family- any more and the threat of the Games would become unbearable; it would tear them up from the inside, send them into a spiralling depression, ending in death, starvation, torture. There was one family, one family in the entire District, with over three children. The Allsopp children were also the closest siblings in the whole District. Rebecca was the oldest; she was the outspoken one, who wouldn't shut up for the world, as many had found the hard way. Rosalind and Jenna, the twins, were basically inseparable, Marcus was the quiet one and Jonathan was the baby of the family.

I have never met these people, not once, but I am assured, from a trust-worthy informant may I add, that they were delightful people however, only when they wanted to be. For example, start talking about would love you forever (as a friend, of course) but talk about movies and she would avoid you for as long as she possibly could. It has been proven. Now, I'm sure such intelligent people as yourselves will pick up more on their personalities as we continue. For this is not a concise profile on exactly what made the Allsopp's tick but a retelling of their life, from the very beginning. They deserved this. I wrote this.

Their story begins at the 60th Hunger Games, the first Hunger Games which was to have a true effect on this family. They had never been touched by it before yet, that year, the true reality began to dawn on them of the extent of the Capitol's reign. Rebecca, who was usually calm and level-headed was shaking like a leaf, unable to string two words together in a sentence. Their house was silent, with almost no movement from a single creature. Rosalind and Jenna were clinging to one another, terrified for whne this would happen to them. Because it would. It was inevitable. It was in two, measly years.

With shaking steps and shredded nerves, they made their way to the square where their fate would be decided. Slowly, Rebecca shuffled to her place in the crowd. Her name was in that bowl only once, nut it was all too possible that she could be drawn. She was 12, had no training and little appeal to potential sponsors. How were the odds at all in her favour?

The nightmare did not come true though. A ragged, older Seam girl was called up. No-one cried for her. She had a hardness in her eyes whilst she was reaped and on the train. All through to her death, she had that same look in her eyes. She knew that she was unimportant. her death didn't matter. She passed in that knowledge. And all through that, Rebecca was practically glued to the screen in her living room. No matter how gruesome or loathsome the scenes became, she looked on. Because someone had to. That could've been her up there, her in that fight, her body carelessly cast aside. And she would want to be remembered. So she remembered them.

That was the start of a tradition, a long and symbolic tradition which continued right to the end. When I visited the ruins of their burned home, bodies were even scattered around the TV, having died respected others. Right to the very end. However, back then, they did not know this. They did not know what next year would hold for any of them. So unlike all the other siblings, arguing and stressing and screeching at each other, they loved each other. I am assured this was not always the case- there was once a terrible incident with a frying pan and a mop- but still, they were not wasteful of their time together.

Which was why they were in danger.

* * *

"Come on Becky, this is your last reaping. Just this one and you'll be free forever, no risk of going in the arena ever again." Samantha whispered soothingly. I apologize here, as I am yet to introduce Samantha however, at this precise moment, she is not at all as vital as the others are to the period of time we are currently discussing. All you need to know is she was the Mother of the Allsopp's. Feel free to forget her now, she'll come back much later, or maybe not at all. Who knows. We have rejoined the tale of this family at the final Reaping of Rebecca, the first of Jonathan. They were both ecstatic and depressed in equal measures; it was both a blessing and a curse. So for all the happiness and jubilation, there was sourness, terror. This year, each and every child was eligible for the Games- there was more chance than ever, especially for Rebecca. Whatever Effie Trinket may babble, the odds were NOT in her favour in any way at all.

On shaking, trembling legs, Rebecca slowly, carefully descended the stairs, doing her very best impression of a girl in control. I am lead to believe this wasn't particularly good. Still, no tears were shed and the short walk to the Town Square was completed in utter silence, not a word heard from anyone. As each sibling tramped slowly into their own personal compartments, their minds filled with thoughts, picturing one of them, one of their family, being carted away to the Capitol, ruthlessly murdered by a vicious Career Tribute. There was, after all, but a single Victor from District 12 still alive, two in all of history. What were the odds that they were going to beat all those others to take the crown?

A hushed silence spread across the Square as Effie Trinket, an insufferably peppy woman who I have, unfortunately, met and never wish to again, mounted the stage, as excited as a small child on Christmas Day. She bubbled her way through her usual speech and eventually, began to draw the names. Every person held their breath for a few seconds, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be them.

"Rebecca Allsopp!" She was never sure in the future how exactly she managed to board the stage, but somehow, she just about managed to get her legs to move enough to get there. She was also never sure how long it was that she stood there; the only thing she was fully aware of was her Mother, silently weeping in the overflowing crowds. Alone. No comfort was offered, no offer of help extended. Something snapped inside of her at that moment. Why was she left there, assumed to be perfectly ready and willing to look after a family while her eldest was away fighting for her life? It was wrong, a true time when she felt an honest resentment towards the world. More of that would come later though, much later.

A Seam boy was called for the boys, his name ringing no bells within Rebecca's head. So, she headed away to her own personal room, preparing to say her goodbyes. Her final goodbyes. By this time, she had basically accepted the fact that her death was approaching. Fast. We will not recount the events which occurred within that room; they were private family affairs which I do not wish to be broadcasted to a larger proportion of the world. Eventually, she was left alone, suffocated by the silence and grandeur of her surroundings. She was almost thankful when she was fetched for the train... Almost.

Flashes exploded in her face, blinding her from searching the crowds for one last glance of her family. Of course, the Capitol were never willing to leave an event to do with the Games unattended. It would never, ever do. Ever. I once suffered a similar ordeal, though not quite as serious, and I can assure you that it is extremely unpleasant. The train loomed in front of her, the very picture of her worst nightmares. Well, the very picture of every child of the Districts nightmares. She was being carted off to her death. To her death. To her death...

For the entire train ride, Rebecca just sat, thinking about what she was going to do, and sometimes what she was not. It was nota given that she was even going to fight. That would give them a surprise. A tribute who sat down and accepted their death. Maybe that would be her path. She doubted that would do any good though- it was an obvious rebellion. Her family would be punished for it. Maybe that wasn't the perfect way to go then. Resigned, she first left her room the night before they were due to arrive in the Capitol. This was her final night of having no cameras, no stylists or prep teams, no anyone stalking her as if she was a full blown celebrity. In short, it was the final night of her normal life. She prepared to savour it as much as she possibly could.

Creeping silently through the deathly silent, deserted corridors, she eventually wandered upon a door, left ever so slightly open. For whichever reason, a careless attendant had decided there were going to be no sneaking tributes or dodgy, drunken mentors on the train that night. What a total oversight. Now, I'm positive you will know the feeling where you just cannot help taking a look at something which is forbidden: a Christmas present maybe. This feeling overcame Rebecca at this moment and slowly, very, very slowly, she crept through the open door.

Flashing lights and codes surrounded her, indicating all manner of idiotic things. Smack bang in the middle of the database was a virtual map, maybe of the Capitol. It was a fair assumption; I have seen their buildings and let me tell you, they take some imagination. If only that was what it had been. For you see, it was actually a map of the arena, a programme which detailed every little feature of every corner of the arena. I was an unbeatable advantage, a weapon which no one could beat. She wasn't stupid. She was aware that there were countless tributes stronger, faster, stealthier than her. This changed everything though. It was something that only she would know, a secret weapon that no-one could take fro her.

Of course she was going to study it.

* * *

Every year, the tributes of every District are obliged to take part in the Tribute Parade. In a nutshell, it involves every District being dressed up as some sort of theme of their District and being forced to mindlessly circle the Square of the Capitol. It is demanding, it is embarrassing and, more than anything, it is a publicity opportunity. Imagine you are a Capitol citizen. I know it will be difficulty, as you will possess roughly triple the amount of brain cells and common sense. However, it can be done, no matter what you may believe. Now, imagine seeing a beautiful, resplendent tribute, almost guaranteed to create a show for you. Now, imagine seeing an awkward, weak tribute who will almost certainly die in the first five minutes. See? I really do hope so, or you might just be a Capitol citizen. The horror...

This does have some sort of relevance, I am yet to go totally insane. The year that Rebecca was in the Games was yet another year when the stylists ideas had run dry. Or, of course, believed coal lumps were the next big trend in the world of fashion. There really is no way of knowing. Anyway, her companion was almost identical to her, right down to the terrified look deep in his eyes. But there was a single difference. Rebecca had belief. How was anyone going to outsmart her when she knew every nook and cranny of the arena, right down to the ground? It was an impossibility.

Splitting the awkward atmosphere of the stables, a bell rang through the air, causing a frenzy of flustered escorts and stylists to immediately mess around their tributes in desperation, trying to make them at least slightly presentable. Slowly, the chariots began to roll, prompting yet more yelps of fear. Can't have a bad performance. The crowd cheered and whooped as the Districts rolled around, their enthusiasm drooping near the end. After all, when was the last time District 12 won? They were of no consequence. As they rolled into the speeches, Rebecca was close to breaking point. She was dressed like an idiot, on national TV. Who was ever going to take her seriously any more? The coal lump girl. She was a laughing stock. She had to make them pay just a little bit more. Or maybe a ton load. It was to be decided.

The second she was off air, Rebecca ripped off her costume, storming unto the nearest elevator, ignoring the protests of Kashazara, her stupid stylist. She didn't need her. She was simply making it worse. So much worse. In the few minutes it took to travel to the twelfth floor, she had calmed ever so slightly to see what must be done. She had to show that District 12 was a threat, not just a laughing stock for the nation.

Slamming her door, she almost leaped across the bed to grab her plan of action, tired of having to act so mature. If you have ever had to act in such a fashion, you will know how tiresome it can become, especially when inside, you are dying to run around screaming. I do not recommend behaving in such a manner however, no matter how strong the urge. Finding her plans, she heaved them up on to the bed, studying them for the umpteenth time before making yet more notes on each and every corner that she may encounter, no matter how unlikely. Knowing that nothing was for certain, she was making absolutely positive that nothing was missed. One slip up and she was dead. Literally.

The next day rolled by in a blur of plans, pages and pages of plans and blueprints. When an incessant knocking reached her door, she jumped, surprised at the ferocity. Believe me, mentors do have such a temper sometimes. Such a temper. The list of instances will bore you, so you'll just have to brainstorm them out. As you will know, the day after the Parade is the first day of training, an opportunity given to every tribute to attempt to develop some form of skills to stay alive for slightly longer and moreover, make for a better show.

As Rebecca, descended to the Training room, she couldn't stop thinking about how pathetic she was going to be at this. She has never had any type of training, unlike several people I could mention but will not. I am too considerate for my own good. Anyway, she was convinced that she possessed no skills in combat, survival or any other useful skills she could learn here. It was a waste of time. Or so she thought.

Stepping into the vast centre, Rebecca gasped at the vast array of ways that they were to be trained in to kill; knives, axes and any other weapon imaginable were scattered around the room like they were not deadly weapons which could kill with a simple throw. The Careers were huddled in a group near the middle, sending covert glances to anyone who looked in the least useful. Not one glance was spared at her. A steady stream of Tributes filtered into the room, most looking terrified for their lives. When the atmosphere was just about getting awkward, Atala, a woman I have met on several occasions and thoroughly despise, entered the room. It immediately fell silent, waiting for instructions. There was but one Rebecca took any notice of. Break the rules and your dead. Along with your family.

Once they were released to do what they would, the Careers immediately headed to the deadliest of weapons, the shyer Tributes edging up to camouflage or survival stations. Not sure what she should do to get the best advantage, Rebecca wondered over to a station on how to use a knife. It had been dismissed by most as they knew exactly how to use a knife, as a tool and a weapon. She hardly knew either. Any weapon would be useful, no matter how rudimental. The instructor soon set her some targets to throw at, which she monumentally failed at. ne nearly cut the instcitors ear off. After that particular incident, he was slightly more wary of her and when she finally left, there was a definite sigh of relief. Typical.

After a day of training where she basically learned nothing, Rebecca eventually returned to her floor, exhausted and dejected. She flopped down on her bed, closing her eyes against the images which had begun to haunt her through day and night. When she opened them, a fearsome sight awaited her. A Peacekeeper.

* * *

different one is split with a line. There'll probably be a paragraph in each POV, so you might have a little trouble keeping up. It tells the same story, just from a few different views.

* * *

There was always a fuss when a certain type of child was Reaped. The younger ones, the kind ones, the working ones. Rebecca was known throughout 12 as the kind girl, the eldest of the Allsopp's, the girl who would do anything to protect her siblings. What had she ever done to deserve the fate which had befell her? Nothing. Her District partner was another thing. A nameless Seam kid, only known to his family and friends. There were always going to be them, those who mattered, but had no effect. They would always be around and nobody disputed this. Rather them than their family.

* * *

Caesar Flickerman had been doing these things for years on end, for as long as anyone could remember. His name was in flashing lights all over the Capitol and there wasn't a single person in the entire country who didn't know him. He was practically the face of the Games. That was why he felt so much. Every Tribute was picked for nothing more than an old grudge and an old battle. He had to try and help them whatever way he could. There was little point in trying to dissuade anyone, he would just end up another one on the President's hit list. He had to be a little less direct. He had to help them in his own way, in the interviews. If he could help one child have a dignified death, or stay alive, it was worth the effort. All of it.

* * *

Plutarch Heavensbee had seen it all, and certainly helped in some of it. He was a Gamesmaker, it was his job to make Tribute's death's come faster. Yet, he still knew, deep down, he was wrong. He could always see the dark side, the hidden side of the Capitol, no matter how hard people attempted to hide it. And it started to eat away at him, at his very soul. he convinced himself he was a monster and wasn't fit to live. Desperate to return to his old self, he searched for a rebellion and, lo and behold, there it was. Of course, it had took a hell of a lot of effort to even let them believe he wasn't going to kill them all on sight, but he did it. He always did.

* * *

Smiling. That was all they needed to do. If every Tribute smiled, a whole lot more would have more of a chance. Maybe not of winning, but of a dignified death at the very least. Caesar had always said they should give the Tributes a lecture on it, to make the Games more interesting, but no. So they were left to make it up, and often fail. Sponsors were lost, people lost interest, bets were made on their deaths. It was a vicious circle. Still, he tried, as he always did, to make everyone feel at home, no matter what his personal feelings were; some of those kids made it very hard to like them. Rebecca wasn't one of them. She wasn't particularly good at interviews, or at anything public really, but she had a certain quality. An air of surety that he could do something no one knew. And she wasn't going to tell. It made her more interesting. It let her gain support. It could just let her win.

"So, Rebecca, how are you finding the Capitol? Very different from home, I'm guessing." "Tell me about it Caesar! I still can't believe I'm actually here. It's like one big dream! I couldn't choose which part is the best; the food, the buldings, the people!" "Well, I'd have to say food myself! Now, talking about home, what was life like back in 12?" "It was a world away from here Caesar. I'm the oldest of 5, so we never really had that much to eat, or that much space, but we got by and we had each other. That was all that mattered to us." Clever, clever girl.

"You must be missing them terribly. You'll just have to win and get back home to them! Any skills to let you do that?" "Maybe Caesar, maybe." "Your training score was an 8. That's one of the highest of the board. How did you do it?" "I might just have something up my sleeve Caesar." "If I was going up against you, I would be very scared. Ladies and Gentleman, Rebecca Allsopp, the female Tribute from District 12!"

* * *

Rebecca had always believed there was a way to do everything, no matter how difficult it might first seem. This arena was proving her wrong. Despite knowing every last detail of the arena, she had almost died a grand total of three times. That was three more than any of the Career as well as a few other strong Tributes. She was barely alive, and suffering from almost every imaginable side effect of dehydration and hunger. How could she keep this up for any longer? The map had contained every water source, every food source, yet when she arrived, they were but empty clearings. It had changed. The arena had changed itself.

* * *

Plutarch sat in the control room of the arena, surrounding by busy Gamemakers. He tapped dly at the keyboard, doing nothing in the slightest. It was the only way he could possibly hold them up. The second the Tributes had vacated the building, a full sweep had been carried out on the Training Centre, In the room of one Rebecca Allsopp was a map of the arena. An unbeatable advantage. She would win for sure. So they had to make sure it was a 'level playing field' again. Slowly, they and morphed the arena, changing parts, switching locations, It was a totally different place. He knew it was wrong, but he knew what was coming for Rebecca as well. She could use every second she could get.

* * *

Caesar watched as Rebecca trekked through the forests. She looked so odd, as if she had every clue where she was going yet never got there. Something was up, he knew it. Little screen time had been dedicated to her; the Careers were on a roll this year. Over half of the Tributes had died at their hands. Rebecca could very well be next. He didn't know what it was, but somehting attracted him to her. She was different. Most Tributes were the same year in year out. Feisty, bloodthirsty, shy, rubbish. She was something he'd never seen. She was new. She was interesting. She was going to die.

* * *

Rebecca slumped against a tree, absolutely exhausted. Slowly, her head began to droop. She was so thirsty, so hungry. She would just give up here, right now. And anyway, alitt;e sleep never hurt anyone did it...

* * *

"Fire her cannon!" Plutarch looked up from his computer, knowing something was wrong. "But, but she's not dead!" He shouted, confused at what exactly was going on. "I know Heavensbee, it's the President's orders. Now go!" Something was ahppening, and it wa big. very, very big.

* * *

"And there goes the cannon! Rebecca Allsopp, female Tribute from 12 is dead! Not a big contributer, not really a fighter. I don't think we've missed anything, have we Caesar?" "No, I doubt it. And we're hearing that her death was by starvation and thirst. She showed some real potential there didn't she?" "Yes, I'm sure she could've made a big splash. And here comes her helicopter, the third death of the day."

* * *

White. that was all Rebecca could see from the minute she opened her eyes. White. Slowly sitting up, she saw she was sitting in a hospital, restrained to her bed. No matter how hard she tried, she was stuck exactly where she was. Why was she even out of the arena? She should be in there right now, fighting for her life. You didn't get out alive unless you won. And she most definitely hadn't won. the Games were playing on the TV screen across from her bed. It was a recap of the deaths; there was a lull in action. It showed... her death. Buts he was alive. "Rebecca Allsopp, died of exhaustion." What? She was alive. "Miss Allsopp, I see you're awake." President Snow. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. No. No, this hadn't happened. This didn't happen to people like her. "I see you've realised. You, my dear, are the latest Avox. I wouldn't celebrate it too much if I were you."


End file.
